The Ballet-Russe is scarfing cous-cous backstage.
Scriabinistic drifts, encoded with the snow of sleds,
resiliently                    glint in the global warmth
of freshly flowering waterbeds.

                                      Slow notes of snow
and then clash with the off white tablecloth so carefully.

North African primitive is in.
Cubist sunsets and phallic minarets
                         clutter the cluttered backstage clutter.

Even though they were not invited,  Dr. and Mrs. Avant-Garde bluff
their way past Arp's unemployed cousin,
                                                  uneasily in charge of the door and the short list.

Erik Satie shows up early.  Erik Satie shows up late.  Erik Satie shows up, pissed
That so many unironic people have been collected under one roof.
He places a spell of de facto irony on them in order to remain aloof.
Rehearsal unfolds slowly
                                                 in an expansive
                                                 space donated
                                                 by the duchess.
Real typewriters are used to represent the typewriter's percussive chattering.
Erik Satie takes to the corner.
Erik Satie tries to ignore her.
Erik Satie whistles last minute changes to the six bars preceding the funny duck-like noise.
Erik Satie bristles at every compliment.

I am your narrator for this part of the poem.
I stole a statuette from the Louvre
                                    They caught me
                                    They caught me
                                    and caught me
and wouldn't let me take it home.
I haven't yet been to the Met - How is their security?

Erik Satie drinks wine.
Erik Satie breaks bread with a halo of close friends in a cafe after sunset's
Symbolist drama unfolds an azure world elsewhere.

Our miniature car clowns
in tight circles
on the stage after the performance inspires     the starched concertgoers to riot.
Tomorrow, perhaps, nothing will shock, and the audience will sit in complacent quiet.
Erik Satie drank the clock for breakfast.
We have the Ballet-Russe eating cous-cous from our hand.

Sundial and rippling Seine jade,
the frontier and fire at close range -
                                                             the century is beginning for a change.
Erik Satie, still in his bedclothes, read the scathing reviews, puffed
                                                 on an unlit cigar,
                                                 and lay back down
                                                 to nap off his hangover.
Someday the movies will talk.  Someday the dead will receive a complete makeover.

Here is a dollar bill brought back from America on the latest crossing.
Let us meet to share a mango peach sorbet.

The monarch will rise again someday, and its gardener,
fond of right angle triangles, shall feel the comfortable wood
of hedge clippers across his triangular palms.

Erik Satie was of the people.
Erik Satie was an elitist pimp.
Make a left on to the boulevard and a right at the alchemy trumpet.
Walk in a simple circle and carry a white limp.
                                         A man in white will meet you there and speak
                                         in tongues of fire resistant hair.
Write down everything he says.
Don't forget to ask your neighbors to water your plants while you're away.

Erik Satie could talk at two speeds at once, but he couldn't dance.
Sirens revved in the church night.
A sugar candy jalopy evaded the search light.
The decay of bells tolled a thousand year old simultaneity, but could not compete
with Erik Satie's eyes, counting erogenous
zones from the toes up.

He stopped when he reached the desired number.
            A dumb show on the street grew number in the wind.
            A mime we passed pulled a rose from my ear.
            An American attempted to escape
                                                                     but an overturned
                                                                                   orange cart
                                                                     blocked his flight.
Erik Satie rolled his motley eyes and wondered
aloud whether poverty was worth all the women moved
to take care of him.
Erik Satie could walk at two speeds at once, but he couldn't dance.
                                      In a station at the Metro,
                                                peddling North African masks
                                      and black boughs of fertility
                                                worship, a cousin of the King's
                                      gardener leads the commuting
                                                crowd in a dream vision.
Erik Satie watches the screen cowboy pierce
                              the snake bite with his bowie knife and suck at the incision.

I would rather lose my eyes than my toes.
What would I do with the windswept heath?
A rose in rows is a rose in rows.
The screen cowboy exhales the rosary canyon's sunset between his pearl white teeth.

(repeat 427 times)